Forbes Five Hundred
by TheVeryLastValkyrie
Summary: France, 2492. A self-important man (in a manner of speaking) and an ungrateful girl (in a manner of speaking) share a special occasion.


_**I just need them in my life right now.  
>Enjoy.<strong>_

* * *

><p><strong>Forbes Five Hundred<strong>

Even the French Quarter isn't quite like France, not really. Cajuns can't compare to Parisians, just like warm Louisiana rays, split and separated by liquor stained stained glass, are nothing next to the wan beams of Paris, shattered into a thousand shimmering shards by the rose window of Notre Dame. Besides, the pace of life is slower in a Europe, and when you have a few thousand years to your name, sometimes a month or so of peace and quiet sounds like just what the doctor ordered (or was the doctor what _you_ ordered?)

He leans on the balustrade and surveys his kingdom, the romantic landscape, the dancing couples, the lights in the trees. He reminds himself of the Comte de Monte Cristo, of Jay Gatsby, of anyone who ever stood on a balcony and self-importantly watched the people below him, imagining himself halfway to being a god (the fact that he is halfway to being a god? Irrelevant, according to her). His shirt and tie are white, his jacket is black, and he breathes in the sweet summer air and the perfume of two dozen women and waits with his eyes half-closed.

She shambles onto the scene seven minutes later, a grey sweatshirt slipping off one shoulder, her eyes grubby with sleep.

"There you are."

"Ugh. Why the hell did you set my alarm for this time?"

"Because you're missing the party."

"I'm jetlagged, and I hate your parties."

"Love." His tongue curls around the word as he draws her to him. Unlike those perfumed women in their silks with their support hose keeping up appearances underneath, she smells like heat and bed. She consents to look down on the company too, to play lightly with the fingers that just brush her other shoulder, with the sleeve of the arm that bars her throat. He likes to hold her like this sometimes, for the pure pleasure of knowing that she knows he'll never move, as fast and deadly as lightning, never snap her neck, never do her harm. She trusts him, and the arm that bars her throat, and his grip relaxes after a moment, sliding down to her waist. The skin there _feels_ like heat and bed, warm and supple. "It's your birthday."

"And I don't know any of these people." Crossly, she folds her arms. "Well – I _know_ I know Mr I-Sell-Vintage-Champagne, and Mr I-Create-Gorgeous-Gowns, and Mr-I-Make-The-Most-Amazing-Pastries-In-The-World…"

"And Mr Used-To-Be-Such-Fun and his brother Mr Irritating-But-Occasionally-Fun and their one true love Ms Beautiful-And-Intense-But-Never-Fun are flying in tomorrow – well, today, actually. You're going to get everything you want this year." His voice husks around her earlobe, and she quivers like his words are dirty instead of sweet. "You want to set fire to the vineyard and dance on the embers, you can. You want to swim naked in the pool in front of all these entitled idiots, you can." His touch turns her gently around, that irresistible look ready in her eyes, that look of recognition, that look of a hundred and more birthdays before. "Everything and anything you want," he promises, stroking the hair back off her unlined brow.

"Anything?" Her nails scratch lightly against his scalp when she reaches up, her shirt riding up to reveal another inch of that warm, supple skin.

"Anything."

The night air is thick with the singing of insects and the promise of something. She quivers, he quivers right back.

"I want to go back to bed," says Caroline with a smile, a flash of her neat sharp teeth in the dark. "And you're going to come with me."

"Please tell me this is leading to the fabled birthday sex."

"It's leading to the fabled birthday _sleep_, but you can do that naked if you want."

The night air is thick with the sounds of the party, but they don't have to live for the night if they don't want to.

Klaus gathers her to him in their island of a bed, wide and deep, white and luxurious. "Happy five hundredth," he murmurs, his mouth against the nape of her neck.

She sighs into the pillow, reaches an arm around to touch his cheek, irresistible, recognisable, a gesture of love a hundred years old and more. A diamond bracelet slides up her arm as she does so, back into place when it crashes into the mattress, sparkling like the diamond on her finger as they crash into the sleep of the dead.

_Fin._


End file.
